Keep Calm and Stay Strong
by FreeSpiritSeeker
Summary: It's been two long,hard,devastating years since Sherlock leapt to his demise.Jayne has been trying to live,try being the operative word. But when Sherlock is suddenly back,everything is even harder. In Sherlock's mind, nothing has changed, but in Jayne-and everyone else's- two years without their friend/love have gone can they all adjust, as Sherlock brings on new adventures?
1. Chapter 1

Jayne walked along the hallway, her heels clacking against the marble floor. Her arms were stacked with file folders, and she sighed as she headed towards the filing room. Day in and day out, this was her solace. Mycroft had kept his promise. He'd kept her busy, constantly, so that she wouldn't have to think. Unfortunately, the nights were still her own. And it was during the night that she was so, so lost without him. Sherlock.

It had been two years. Two years since they had come to her door, Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's own brother, to tell her that he was dead. That in order to save them all, he'd sacrificed himself. Two long years of lonely nights. Alone. Numb. Despair-filled nights. But still, the little voice in her mind that was attatched to her heart told her that he was not dead. But it was getting harder and harder to listen to that voice.

"Jayne?" a voice called, startling her out of her thoughts.

She turned to see one of her co-workers in the archives, a slim, tall figure. Blonde hair pulled back in a bun, soft blue eyes covered by the chunky black frames of her glasses. "Yes, Liz?" she asked. Liz's hands traveled down her heather blue jersey wrap dress, self consciously, her nude leather pumps tapping on the floor as she delivered her message.

"Mr. Holmes just called. He'd like you to meet him for lunch."

Jayne sighed and nodded. "Thank you, Liz," she replied. Jayne closed the door to the archives room behind her and began reading off the names of files in her head, and putting them in the appropriate cabinets. At eleven fifty-two, she filed the last one, and walked out of the room to her little office. She shut the door behind her, looking around at the small room. It was panelled in dark brown wood, with two windows, one facing east, the other north. She had a nice view, when she actually thought about the view, instead of simply letting her mind wander when she stared out the window, her mind remembering happier times.

Her phone beeped, reminding her of her lunch with Mycroft. She quickly grabbed her long, black tweed coat, pulling it on over her navy blue pin-striped pantsuit and silk wine-colored blouse. Her navy flats matched her purse, the bag large enough to carry everything she thought she needed, including an extra change of clothes in case she needed it. Her new passport, identification, hell, even her library card, all of them well-made not-so-fakes given to her by Mycroft, were in that bag.

She met Mycroft at the elevators, and he gave her his real smile, one that only she, of a very few people ever got to see. "Hello, my darling Jayne."

She smiled back at him, but knew, from past discussion, that it didn't truly meet her eyes as it once had. "Hello, Mycroft. How's the British Empire today?"

He leaned on his umbrella and looked her over. She was tired, he could see it in her face. It was compounded by grief and too many nights filled with nightmares and lack of sleep. It still tore at his heart, and he wished he could tell her the truth, but he knew it would put her, as well as everything they'd put into motion two years ago, in danger. But soon, soon everything they'd worked so hard for would be coming to a close, and he would get to see Jayne smile her true smile again. "It's going very well, my dear, very well. It looks as though we will have a new little Prince to spoil very soon," he said.

That bought a true smile to her face. Jayne loved children, and the prospect of the Royal family having a new little member made her smile. Jayne had had the dubious pleasure of meeting the queen some months ago, thanks to Mycroft. She was a lovely woman, but she exuded power and it made Jayne extremely nervous. But according to Mycroft, the queen was quite fond of Jayne and had liked her quite a bit. She had yet to meet William, Kate, Harry, or Prince Charles, but she had gotten to meet Lady Camilla. The older woman had also been quite taken with Jayne, walking with her through the gardens at one of the older estates where a party was being held in honor of some countess that Jayne couldn't ever remember the name of. When the party was over, Camilla had patted her lightly on the face, told her to keep her spirits up, and that she hoped to see her again some time. Who ever thought that I would be shaking the hands of Royalty, Jayne thought, let alone that they would like me enough to want to see me again.

"That's wonderful news, Mycroft," Jayne said, her lips still curved in a smile. He offered her arm, and she took it, as they entered the elevator. "So what shall we have today, my friend?" she asked. "Curry? Chinese? McDonald's?" she teased lightly, knowing his disdain for the fast food chain.

He teased her constantly about her Big Mac addiction, though he'd surprised her one evening when she'd been feeling down, and planned a weekend of nothing but watching movies, reading fanfiction (which still existed in this world, thank heaven!)and being basically a slob, by arriving at her doorstep with Althea. The assistant was holding a shopping bag full of the newest movie releases (some not quite on the store shelves yet), a grocery sack full to the brim with snacks, and a large box of Godiva chocolates. Meanwhile, Mycroft held a large bag with a half-dozen Big Macs, fries, and a holder of drinks. "We're not staying, darling, but if you insist on having a lie-in weekend, you'll need sustenance and something interesting to watch."

Jayne smiled and took the bags from Anthea, who immediately headed back down to the car. She turned to Mycroft, who put the bag down on her table and reached up, patting her cheek lightly. She shocked him by throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly, though she knew he really didn't care much for being touched. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her. She knew how much he cared about her. No matter the public face he put on, Mycroft Holmes did love, and he loved deeply. He had loved Sherlock and it had been a horrible blow to his heart when his brother had been killed, she had seen it in his gaze sometimes when he didn't realize he was staring blankly out the window, just as she did.

"Thank you, Mycroft. This will definitely make it a much better weekend. I'll think of you with each and every bite of Big Mac, I promise," she said, making him huff and pat her back genially. "I look forward to seeing you back at work, and in proper clothes," he said, eyeing her "I am Loki of Asgard" sleep pants, and overlarge grey sweatshirt that hung off her frame, "and on time and ready to work. Understood?" he asked. "Yes, sir, Mr. Boss-man," she agreed. He'd taken his leave, but she had kept her promise and over the two-and-a-half days, had enjoyed the Big Macs, warmed-over fries, and the other goodies along with the action-packed movies he'd brought her.

His shudder brought her mind back to the moment. "You and that horrible restaurant. I could take you to the finest of haute cuisine and you'd want to stop for a Big Mac after."

"Of course I would. Do you not see how tiny those stupid little plates are? There's no food on them, Mycroft. Twenty-five pounds for a slice of a peeled, julienned carrot browned in a clarified butter sauce with fleur de sel. Seriously? It's a frickin' cooked carrot stick with salt. I can make a pound of it on my own for a whole lot less and actually feel like I've eaten something. I'm sorry, but I'm not Anthea or any of those other little stick figure women you surround yourself with. I'm a woman, I have curves and an appetite," she teased.

"Okay then, you choose. Anything but McDonald's," he said, and she laughed.

"How about Angelo's? They still have the best pasta I've ever had."

"That sounds quite enjoyable, yes."

They wandered out to Mycroft's chauffered car and climbed in. Mycroft gave the driver directions and soon they were on their way. "Are you sure you're okay going to Angelo's? I know it was a place that you frequented often with my brother," he quieried, not wanting her to hurt anymore than was necessary.

"It's all good memories there, Mycroft. I can't let myself be led around by my memories, or I'd avoid pretty much everything. All of London in fact, as well as several other areas." They pulled up to Angelo's and walked into the restaurant, assailed by scents redolent with garlic, herbs and the tangy scent of simmering tomato sauces.

They were quickly seated and brought their drinks, Mycroft having a glass of deep rich red wine, and Jayne stuck to her lemonade. As Mycroft peered over the menu, she did as well, mouth watering at some of the offerings. When the waiter reappeared to take their order, Mycroft put his menu aside. "I'll have the garden salad with balsalmic dressing on the side," he said.

"No he will not," Jayne said, glaring at him. He sighed and looked at her. The waiter looked back and forth between them. "Mycroft, I know you're hungry. A salad is not going to hold you until supper-and you better eat more than a damn salad for supper, too, my friend-so you need to eat something with more substance. Besides, food has no calories when you're out with me, remember?" she said, winking at him. A smirk graced his lips. "Allow me to order for you, my friend?"

He agreed with a quick nod of his head and Jayne looked up at the waiter. "My friend will have the ravioli with wild boar ragout, and we'll share a platter of the fruitti di mare. For dessert, he'll have the chocolate tartufo. I'll have the Shrimp Alfredo and the caramel panna cotta with blackberry coulis for dessert," Jayne ordered, handing him their menus. He wrote the order down and smiled, "Wonderful choices, signorina!"

While they waited on their food, they spoke about work, Jayne telling Mycroft about a disaster she'd averted when one of the newbies had nearly shredded a week's worth of forms that weren't finished being loaded into the new computerized filing system. "The poor girl probably thought the American had gone crazy," she giggled. "Here I came running, hair flying, barefoot, sliding down the hall towards her and that damned paper shredder, yanking the files out of her hands and asking her if she had a brain cell in her head!"

When their food arrived, they were much too busy devouring the plates of delicious pasta, the platter of seafood, and their creamy desserts to do much talking. When the bill arrived, Jayne allowed Mycroft to pay. They returned to work, feeling much better, definitely fuller, and just a bit happier.

Three weeks later, Jayne was hurrying toward's Mycroft's office with a specific file he'd been asking for. Unfortunately, she wasn't watching where she was going, and knocked into someone. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she said, immediately dropping to her knees to pick up the papers. A pair of hands appeared in her view, holding several of the dropped pages.

"Quite alright," came a very familiar voice.

Jayne gasped and looked up. He stood there, looking slightly worried and guilty. Tears filled her eyes as she flew at him, throwing herself into his arms. "I knew you weren't dead! I knew you weren't dead! I knew you weren't dead!" she repeatedly whispered over and over in litany. He'd granted her wish. He wasn't dead.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as the relief had come, it was gone. And then nothing was left but absolute fury. "You're alive!"Jayne said once more, but this time the inflection was completely different. Sherlock smirked and nodded. Needless to say the smirk was wiped off his face when Jayne slapped him harder than she'd ever slapped anyone in her life. She was sorry, and yet human enough, to say that she was glad to see the red imprint of her hand on his face. She threw the papers on the floor and walked away.

She heard Sherlock shouting after her but kept walking. Mycroft stood beside the doors to the elevator, leaning on his umbrella, looking a bit wary. "You knew," Jayne said, absolutely beyond angry. "You knew! And yet...you let me believe for TWO YEARS, TWO YEARS, Mycroft Holmes, that the man I loved was dead! You knew!" Jayne shouted, before she slapped him too, and walked into the elevator, and pushed the button for the ground floor.

She walked past the guard and the table, flashing her badge, before walking out the door and hailing a cab. Jayne gave the driver her address, and sat back, breathing hard, eyes tearing up as the cab moved slowly through the streets of the city that had slowly become her home.

When they arrived, Jayne handed the cabbie his money and climbed out, taking the stairs up to her apartment. It was so different than the apartment at Mrs. Hudson's. It was more modern, with Jayne both loved and hated. She loved having access to hot water at any time, and that the pipes didn't make odd sounds in the middle of the night. But she missed the homeyness and uniqueness that 221 B and her little apartment had had.

Jayne sighed and put the kettle on, making herself some tea, as she sliced homemade bread for a sandwich, layering it with slices of cheddar and sliced ham before wrapping it in foil and placing it in the oven. She turned the oven on medium heat, and set the timer for fifteen minutes, to heat up and toast while the kettle boiled.

She wandered into her bedroom and pulled off her work clothes, sighing as she unsnapped her bra. She threw it all in the hamper and pulled on a long, wide-strapped cotton nightgown, her dressing gown over top. She pulled on ballet-flat style house shoes and wandered back into the kitchen. She turned off the kettle, pulled the hot sandwich from the oven and placed it on a plate. She poured herself a large mug-a gift from Mycroft with a quote from Lord of the Rings that said "Not all who wander are lost"-of Earl Grey tea. She added her milk and sugar, and carried it all to the living room. She sat on the couch, turned on the TV and put on Netflix, indulging in a marathon of Hemlock Grove. While she indulged in the lives of Roman and Peter, she thought about the last two years logically.

 _Where had Sherlock been_?

She knew the answer had to lay in something to do with Moriarty. Sherlock had called him a spider in a massive web. It was then she knew. He'd spent so long, playing dead, to track down all the little flies that Moriarty had trapped in his web and turned into spiders themselves. Moriarty was not one to get his hands dirty. He relied on others to do the dirty work for him. That's who Sherlock would have been hunting.

But why? Why hadn't he let them know he was alive? _It hurt_ _that he felt that he couldn't trust me_. _That he couldn't trust John. Why didn't he trust us?_ she thought. She knew that neither she nor John would ever betray Sherlock, even on pain of death. Was that the problem? Was Sherlock Holmes, who swore he didn't have a heart, who wasn't afraid of anything, afraid of something happening to her? To John?

She suddenly realized her tea had gone stone cold and she'd been picking at her sandwich until it was only torn apart slivers of meat, cheese, and toasted bread. She sighed and ate the sandwich, before getting up to get more hot tea. Just as she passed her doorway, there was a knock. Surprised, Jayne set her mug and dirty plate down, on the table beside the door, and opened the small drawer on the side. She steadied herself, breathing evenly, before pulling out the small pearl-handled gun that Mycroft had given her so long ago. She turned the safety off, and called out, "Who is it?"

"Jayne? It's...it's me," came a rather pitiful sounding voice. Jayne quickly peered out of the peephole. She wrenched open the door quickly and sighed, leaning against the door frame.

"What in God's name happened to you?" she asked, a bit shocked. Sherlock stood there, looking rather beat up. He had tissues stuffed in his nostrils, his clothes were ripped and out of place, he had scratches on his face, neck and collarbone, and he looked absolutely exhausted.

"John," he said simply.

"Didn't take it well, I presume?" she asked.

"I don't understand. I thought he'd be happy to see me. I thought you'd be happy to see me," he said softly.

Jayne reached out and grasped his hand, pulling him into the apartment and shutting the door. "Let's get you cleaned up, Sherlock, then we'll talk."

She led him to the bathroom, having him sit his long legged self on top of the bathroom counter. She stood between his legs, pulling the tissues from his nostrils and checking that the bleeding had stopped. She cleaned his scratches-she wasn't sure what he'd gotten them from. John's nails, perhaps?-with rubbing alcohol and then spread a thin layer of antibiotic ointment over them. She soaked his fingertips in warm water before scrubbing them clean of the grit that had somehow gotten ground into them. When he was taken care of, she walked into her bedroom and came out carrying some of his clothes, blushing when she handed him a pair of his pajamas.

"When...when you were gone, I couldn't...I couldn't give them away. I slept in them sometimes, just to feel like you were close," Jayne said. She sniffed and looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

Sherlock felt a wrench in his heart and wanted to reach out and hold her, but after the slap that afternoon, he wasn't sure if she would welcome his touch, so he let his arm fall back into place at his side. Jayne placed the pajamas on the counter. "Take a shower, Sherlock, you'll feel better. Then come to the kitchen, I'll make us some tea and we'll talk," she said.

Twenty-five minutes later, a freshly washed and dressed Sherlock walked into the kitchen, his hair still damp, the curls plastered against his forehead. "I wasn't sure what you wished for me to do with my dirty clothes, so I put them in the hamper in the bedroom," he said. She smiled at him and nodded.

"I'll wash and dry them for you tonight so you can wear them tomorrow, if you don't like the other clothes I kept here," she said. All of a sudden she couldn't take the distance between them anymore, physically or emotionally.

She wrapped her arms around him and lifted herself up on her tiptoes to kiss him. She moaned softly against his lips, especially when he pulled her closer. "I missed you so much," she whispered, tears dripping from her eyes. He searched those eyes, the ones he'd dreamed of more often than not as he'd infiltrated and run down the ring of Moriarty's men. He wiped her tears away, hating that he'd caused them.

"I had to be sure. I had to be sure that Moriarty hadn't put more plans in place to kill you. To kill John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, all the others that he knew would break the unbreakable heart of Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied. Jayne paled. So she'd been on the right track with her thoughts that afternoon.

"And is it done?" she asked.

"Mycroft believes so," he said.

Jayne frowned. "But do you believe so, Sherlock?"

"I tracked down as many as I could, but Moriarty was devious beyond belief. There may be ones that I didn't get, but the ring is severely depleted. And now it's time for Sherlock Holmes to come back from the dead," he answered, running his hands through his curls.

Jayne still looked worried. "Let's go to bed," he said, trying to take her mind off of Moriarty. He leaned down and kissed her, making her smile.

She laughed. "Nuh-uh, buddy. I'm still mad at you. You're sleeping on the couch!" she said.

His face fell, and Jayne almost laughed at his expression. "What? Really?" he asked, as Jayne walked towards her bedroom. "Jayne?" he called, then let out an "oof!" as he was hit in the face with a well-thrown down pillow, followed by sheets and a large navy blue quilt.

"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes!" Jayne called, before shutting her door.

Sherlock stood there for a moment before sighing and gathering the things she'd thrown at him. _Well_ , he thought, _at least it's a comfortable couch_.


	3. Chapter 3

Jayne allowed Sherlock to sleep in the next morning, it was easy to see he was exhausted. There were still bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. She walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea; while it heated, she scrubbed and peeled potatoes before slicing them and putting them in a bowl of cold water. She poured herself a mug of tea when the kettle began to whistle, after quickly taking it off the heat. She added her Earl Grey tea, and let it steep, reading from a book she'd just begun. She took the teabag out and added her milk and sugar, sipping the hot tea as she read.

When she finally heard Sherlock begin to stir, she put the book down, and poured the cold water off from the potatoes, rinsing them a couple more times before spreading them over a clean layer of paper towels. She put a cast iron skillet on the heat, pouring a tablespoon or so of oil into the pan. Just before she put the potatoes in the pan, there was a knock at the door.

She hurried to the door, tying her dressing gown tightly around herself before she peered out the peephole and was surprised at who was there. She opened the door to find John, freshly relieved of his ridiculous mustache (she'd seen the pictures, thanks to Mycroft). "John?" she exclaimed in surprise.

"I take it he's been here, too? You don't seem too awfully surprised to see me," he said, stepping inside and taking off his coat.

"He's just woken. Come into the kitchen, I'm making breakfast," she said, heading back to the kitchen, knowing he would follow. By now the pan was very hot and Jayne hurried to slide the potatoes into it. She covered the pan with a lid, slid it back onto, and lowered the heat on, the smaller back burner. She took another pan from the cupboard by the stove and placed it on a different burner. She took eggs from the refrigerator and scrambled them quickly in a bowl.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen, looking a little wary of John. "You're not going to hit me again, are you?" he asked.

John's face went red and he looked worriedly at Jayne. "Don't look at me," she said, "I slapped him!" she said, with a shrug, before turning back to the stove. She put a few pats of butter into the warming pan and allowed them to melt before stirring in the eggs. While John and Sherlock spoke back and forth, she finished the eggs, leaving them to stay warm on the back of the stove. She pulled the potatoes forward to the bigger burner and turned them, smiling when they were nicely crisped on the outside and fluffy on the inside. She quickly took three plates from the top cupboard above the sink and while the potatoes finished, she sliced three thick slices of bread and pushed them into the toaster.

She took the old fashioned butter bell off the counter, placing it on the table with the cherry jam she'd made a few weeks ago and the orange marmalade from a local organic farmer's market. When the toast popped up, she placed one slice on each plate, along with a large couple of spoonfuls of eggs, and a serving of the sliced fried potatoes. She poured two extra mugs of tea and placed it all on the table along with silverware, milk and sugar, salt and pepper.

For several minutes all was quiet except for the scrape of utensils across the plates. When everything was clear, Jayne picked up the plates and silverware and freshened the cups of tea. "Now then, what's on your mind, John," Jayne asked, sipping her tea.

"Sherlock. When you found me last night, I was on the verge of proposing to Mary."

"Oh, John, that's wonderful! I can't wait to meet her," Jayne said, smiling, happy for her friend. While they hadn't stayed in touch as much as she wished they'd had, they still saw each other every few months, though Jayne had yet to meet Mary.

"Thank you, Jayne," he said, with a small smile, before turning back to Sherlock. "But I cannot, and will not come back to this, this insanity! Hopping into cabs at all hours of the day and night, being nearly killed, all of it! I'm going to be married. I'm going to have someone that will rely on me to come home. So no, Sherlock, I will not help you with this case."

"Is that all you have to say?" John asked.

John looked angry. "No, as a matter of fact, it isn't. Fuck you!" John said, and stomped out the door, slamming it behind himself.

Sherlock stood there stunned for a moment. Jayne just sighed. "I was afraid of that," she whispered to herself. She turned to Sherlock. "I'm going to go get dressed, I"ll be right back," she told him.

In her bedroom, she quickly changed into a pair of comfortable but nice-looking black cotton slacks, a baby blue blouse and a blazer that matched the black slacks. She placed a pair of plain diamond studs in her ears. She slipped a pair of black stockings and then black patent leather flats on her feet. "Are you ready, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, appearing beside her and making her gasp. She smacked his shoulder and rolled her eyes. "Don't do that!"she exclaimed. He smirked.

The left Jayne's apartment, Jayne locking the door behind her, tossing the keys into her large bag. They took the elevator to save time, then left the building. Sherlock called for the taxi and they climbed in. It was almost deja vu-ish when he called out for 221 Baker Street.

An hour later, in a freshly cleaned and dusted 221 B, Jayne sat on the sofa, watching as Mycroft and Sherlock played a game.

"All very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to Critical," Mycroft informed his younger brother.

"Boring. Your move."

Mycroft was adamant. "We have solid information. An attack is coming."

"'Solid information.' A secret terrorist organization's planning an attack – that's what secret terrorist organizations do, isn't it? It's their version of golf," Sherlock huffed.

"An agent gave his life to tell us that," Mycroft said, anger edging his tone.

Sherlock smirked, "Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn't have done. He was obviously just trying to show off."

Mycroft tried to hold back a sigh. "None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously? Your move."

"No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I'll find the answer. It'll be in an odd phrase in an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside, or a misplaced Lonely Hearts ad. Your move."

Mycroft wasn't amused. "I've given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you're on the case."

"I am on the case. We're both on the case. Look at us right now."

Suddenly there was a loud buzzing and a red light flashing. Jayne looked up from a book she'd begun reading from a nearby pile about Jack the Ripper, while the two played and talked.

Mycroft groaned angrily, "Oh, bugger!}

"Oopsie!" Sherlock cried gleefully.

Sherlock looked at the piece of the Operation game that Mycroft hadn't been able to pick up without hitting the side of the board. "Can't handle a broken heart – how very telling." Sherlock looked smug and sat back in the chair, crossing his legs.

"Don't be smart," Mycroft admonished him.

"That takes me back, Sherlock said, before mimicking a little boy's voice, "Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one."

Mycroft glowered at him. "I am the smart one."

"I used to think I was an idiot," Sherlock said, reminiscing.

"Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on 'til we met other children," Mycroft reminded him.

"Oh, yes. That was a mistake."

"Ghastly. What were they thinking of?" Mycroft asked, looking horrified.

"Probably something about trying to make friends," Sherlock suggested.

"Oh yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now."

"And you don't? Ever?" Sherlock asked, looking at Mycroft closely.

"If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I'm living in a world of goldfish," Mycroft said.

"Hey!" Jayne said, looking up. Mycroft looked sheepish for a moment. "Not you, Jayne, dear," he said. She snorted lightly in disbelief and turned back to her book.

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Yes, but I've been away for two years."

"So?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shrugged "Oh, I don't know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a ... goldfish."

"Change the subject – now!" Mycroft said, both looking and sounding appalled at Sherlock's suggestion. Mycroft stood up and walked over to stand beside the fireplace.

"Rest assured, Mycroft – whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre," Sherlock assured him.

Mrs Hudson, carrying a tray of tea things, walked into the room with her traditional "Ooh-ooh!"

"Speaking of which ..." Mycroft said, as Sherlock smiled at the older woman.

"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it! Him – sitting in his chair again!" She said, while putting the tea things on the table. "Oh, isn't it wonderful, Mr Holmes?" she asked Mycroft.

Mycroft smirked, "I can barely contain myself."

"Oh, he really can, you know," Sherlock said.

"He's secretly pleased to see you underneath all that ... " Jayne laughed softly at the sour face Mrs. Hudson pulled.

"Sorry – which of us?" Mycroft asked.

"Both of you," Mrs. Hudson replied.

Mrs. Hudson left the room and Sherlock decided, "Let's play something different."

Sighing exasperatedly, Mycroft asked, "Why are we playing games?"

Sherlock simply replied, "Well, London's terror alert has been raised to Critical." He flailed his legs over the table before standing, "I'm just passing the time. Let's do deductions."

He walked over to the dining table and picks up a woolen bobble hat which has ear flaps and a dangly woolen pom pom hanging from each flap. "Client left this while I was out. What d'you reckon?" he asked, tossing the hat to Mycroft.

Mycroft caught the hat but looked boredly at Sherlock. "I'm busy."

"Oh, go on. It's been an age," Sherlock insisted.

Mycroft lifted the hat to his nose and sniffed, then looked at Sherlock. "I always win."

"Which is why you can't resist."

"I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-traveled anxious sentimental unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis ..." Mycroft answered rapid-fire. He stopped when he saw Sherlock's widening smile.

"Oh, eww!" Jayne said, but she couldn't turn away, like a car accident. Her head flew back and forth, as if watching a tennis match, as the brothers began to deduce.

"Damn," Mycroft cursed. He threw the hat back to Sherlock.

"Isolated, too, don't you think?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft grimaced, "Why would he be isolated?"

Sherlock was quick to catch it. "He?"

"Obviously." Mycroft answered.

"Why? Size of the hat?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft huffed. "Don't be silly. Some women have large heads too."

Jayned giggled, but watched Sherlock flinch. _Because of Mycroft's insult to his intelligence_? she wondered.

Mycroft continued, "No – he's recently had his hair cut. You can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside."

Sherlock looked at the hat pouting slightly. "Some women have short hair, too."

"Balance of probability," Mycroft replied.

"Not that you've ever spoken to a woman with short hair – or, you know, a woman," Sherlock sniped at his brother.

"Stains show he's out of condition, and he's sentimental because the hat has been repaired three, four ..." Mycroft said, continuing as if Sherlock hadn't spoken.

"Five times," Sherlock said, tossing the hat back to Mycroft before beginning his rapid fire deductions again. "Very cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat, so he's mawkishly attached to it, but it's more than that. One, perhaps two, patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five's excessive behavior. Obsessive compulsive."

"Hardly. Your client left it behind. What sort of an obsessive compulsive would do that?"

Mycroft threw the hat back to Sherlock, who grabbed it with an exasperated grimace. "The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so he's worn it abroad – in Peru."

"Peru?"

"This is a chullo – the classic headgear of the Andes. It's made of alpaca," Mycroft replied.

Sherlock smirked "No."

"No?"

"Icelandic sheep wool. Similar, but very distinctive if you know what you're looking for. I've written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibers," Sherlock answered.

Mrs. Hudson returned with a steaming teapot, and Jayne grinned when the older woman added in, "I'm sure there's a crying need for that."

Sherlock paused for a moment, then turns back to Mycroft. "You said he was anxious."

"The bobble on the left side has been badly chewed, which shows he's a man of a nervous disposition but ..."

Sherlock took over, talking over his brother, " ... but also a creature of habit because he hasn't chewed the bobble on the right."

"Precisely." Mycroft replied.

Jayne felt her stomach churn as Sherlock lifted the hat and sniffed it before lowering it again, grimacing. "Brief sniff of the offending bobble tells us everything we need to know about the state of his breath." He turned away for a moment. "Brilliant!" he said sarcastically.

"Elementary," Mycroft corrected him.

"But you've missed his isolation," Sherlock said.

"I don't see it," Mycroft replied.

"Plain as day."

"Where?" Mycroft asked.

"There for all to see."

"Tell me," Mycroft insisted.

"Plain as the nose on your ..."

"Tell me," Mycroft insisted again, louder this time.

Sherlock turned back to his brother, "Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn't in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?"

"Not at all. Maybe he just doesn't mind being different. He doesn't necessarily have to be isolated," Mycroft replied.

"Exactly."

Sherlock looked down at the hat again. Mycroft blinked several times, apparently confused. "I'm sorry?" he asked, confusion lacing his tone.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft. "He's different – so what? Why would he mind? You're quite right." Sherlock perched the hat on his head and looked pointedly at Mycroft. "Why would anyone mind?"

Mycroft's mouth gaped open and shut for a few moments before he regained the ability to speak. " ... I'm not lonely, Sherlock."

Sherlock tilted his head down and looks closely at him, then stepped nearer with an intense expression on his face. "How would you know?"

Sherlock took off the hat and turned to Mrs. Hudson who was standing in the doorway smiling.

"Yes. Back to work if you don't mind. Good morning. Jayne, dear, I'll see you later," he said. Jayne nodded and waved at him. Her anger at him had dissipated during the time she'd had to think things over. She was by no means entirely forgiving of his actions yet, but she knew that he had to think of the country first and personal wants last.

Sherlock smirked and turned to look back at the wall behind Jayne, filled with maps, snapshots of people, and articles, along with traces of marker writings and ink from a pen. "Right. Back to work."


	4. Chapter 4

Still sitting quietly, Jayne watched as Sherlock held up his phone and looked at the latest photos of one of his 'markers.' Mrs Hudson came to the door of the living room and watched, too, as Sherlock drew a cross over the photo of the same man that is pinned to the wall.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, catching his attention.

"Mm?" he returned, rather absently.

"Talk to John," she begged him, again. They'd been at this particular argument for the last two days. Jayne merely shook her head, remembering John's rather rude answer, though he'd been sure to assure Jayne that he held no ill will towards her, of course.

"I tried talking to him. He made his position quite clear," Sherlock answered.

"What did he say?" the older woman asked him.

"F..."Sherlock began, but Jayne cut him off quickly.

"Sherlock, I don't think she really needs to hear exactly the words he used."

"Ooh dear!" Mrs. Hudson cried and turned away in surprise. Soon, Jayne looks up in surprise and delight as Molly walks into the room.

"Molly! Oh, it's wonderful to see you!" Jayne says, looking up from the notebook that she was doodling in. Mycroft had given her a half-day off to try and keep Sherlock out of trouble for a while. Molly hugged her back and turned to Sherlock. "You wanted to see me?"

Sherlock turned to her from the window he'd been staring out of. "Yes." He walked towards her. "Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Would you ..." He stopped for a moment, looking down, before walking closer. "Would you like to..."

"Have dinner?" Molly finished at the same time as Sherlock said, "solve crimes?"

Molly looked at him a little awkwardly. "Oh."

Jayne couldn't help but snicker behind her hand at Sherlock's question. He REALLY must be missing John! Suddenly her phone beeped, she had a text.

 **Need you to come in now. Sorry, dear. Duty calls.-MH.**

"Oh blast. Sorry, Sherlock, Molly, just got a call in to work. But I will see you both later, I hope. Molly, I've missed you, we need to get together soon!" Jayne said, giving her friend a hug. "Sherlock, behave yourself," she said, giving him a wink to which he smirked in return. "Hopefully, I'll be able to meet up with you both later, depending on what Mycroft needs. Bye!" Jayne called to them, as she walked out the door of 221 B.

* * *

An few hours later, Jayne received an email from Molly. Apparently Greg had brought Sherlock and Molly in on a case of a skeleton in Victorian era clothing that had been found, along with a journal saying it had been written by Jack the Ripper and how he had performed the murders in Whitechapel. Jayne could feel her eyebrows raise, everyone wants to know who the killer known as Jack the Ripper truly was, could this finally be the truth? It sounded completely wrong, but then again, truth is usually stranger than fiction.

As she read the email, Molly finished by saying that Sherlock had "solved" the mystery by realizing that the corpse was only six months old, the shabby Victorian clothing had been from a mannequin in a shop that had suffered from sun fading and fire damage and been sold off the week before. It was quite amusing to read. Not so amusing was the note at the end of the email from Molly saying that Sherlock had been acting a bit strange, talking to himself, and even calling her and Greg John at one point. Jayne shook her head in wonder. They definitely needed to get John back.

After a rather exhausting day, and a few more emails from Molly, including one about a missing Tube car, which quite boggled her mind, Jayne closed the door to her office and walked out of the building after waving goodbye to Mycroft and a new assistant that had been assigned to their area named Francine, who insisted they call her Fanny. She was originally from Sweden and was an absolute dear. She reminded Jayne a lot of herself in her college days. Fanny was quite hilarious, very sweet, and Jayne was rather certain that dear little Fanny had quite a crush on Mycroft. The dear girl's cheeks flushed red as a radish whenever the older man was around, and she got horribly tongue-tied.

As Jayne watched, Fanny nearly tripped over her own shoes as she watched Mycroft's car pull away from the curb. "Good night, Fanny!" Jayne called. The girl turned, almost too quickly, and nearly fell over.

"Oops! Oh! Good night, Miss Jayne! Hope you have a lovely evening! Get some rest! I mean, not that you look bad or anything, I just mean that I hope you rest well. I mean, no bad dreams. I mean. Oh! Good night!" Fanny said, hurrying away.

Jayne giggled to herself. She was definitely going to have to get Fanny and Molly together with Mary and have a girl's night out. She shook her head and started to walk to the curb to hail a cab, when someone struck from behind. She felt the pinch of a needle digging into the skin of her neck and before she could call for someone, her body was falling backwards.

When she awakes, Jayne is very disoriented. Her eyelids flutter open, and her heartbeat starts to quicken when she realizes that she's tied up. Her ankles and wrists are tied. Suddenly something forces her wrists to move and she turns her head. "John?" she tries to say, but her throat is very dry, from whatever drug had been given to her. She notices a bleeding wound on his forehead around the same time she notices drops of blood are still dripping down her own face and landing on her brand new blouse. Damn.

She squirms, trying to face him, but can't get any closer. She looks around and realizes that they are surrounded on all sides by kindling wood and brush. What the devil was all of this? And then he heard the sounds of a crowd, somewhere outside of all the wood around them. John opened his mouth and tried to cry out but all he can manage is a faint moan. He thrashes, trying to push himself up and continuing to moan quietly, dragging Jayne along with him.

Jayne could feel tears mingling with the blood draining down her face as she saw a man carrying a lit brand for starting a fire with. She and John were going to be burned alive! "Sherlock!" she tried to cry out. Panic took over, and she stared in wide eyed fear at John, who was just as afraid.

Suddenly the smell of fuel fills both their nostrils, as someone begins to pour it all over the effigy of Guy Fawkes that they are under. Jayne tears at their bonds, trying to get them loose. John yells one last time as the fire is lit, and suddenly there are screams of small children, as John's cry is heard. The fire is igniting quickly, and the smoke is starting to make it more and more difficult to breathe. The flames start licking at Jayne's skirt, and she tries to use her knee to push the lit branches away from her.

Suddenly Jayne hears a voice she had been praying for. Sherlock was yelling to the crowd, " Move! Move! Move! Move! Move!" He reached the front of the crowd and raced towards the flaming bonfire.

"John! Jayne!" he cried.

Then Mary's voice joined in, calling for John. "John! Get out, John!"

They continue to pace around the fire, trying to find a sign of Jayne or John, and finally John was able to cry for help. With a location, Sherlock plunged his arms into the flames, throwing pieces of lit wood aside until he was able to reach in and grab John, hauling him out, Jayne's now-limp, unconscious body being dragged along with it.

Sherlock rolled John onto his back, and John laid there looking dazed. "John? John!" He patted John's face gently, as Mary covered her mouth crying for John. "Hey, John," Sherlock said, and John gazed up at them blankly as their faces faded in and out.

"Jayne..is she ok?" he whispered. He blinked as if trying to force his vision to work properly. Mary was already giving Jayne a once-over.

"She's got a bit of smoke inhalation, she'll have a bit of a sore throat. You've both got some kind of a blow to the head, hers is bleeding a bit more. But we'll get you to the hospital to get checked out. I think you're both going to be fine," Mary said, as the sound of an ambulance started to be heard.


End file.
